As the Crow Flies
So real you might think he had flown in
through the window and landed on the white
pedestal like an apparition, a harbinger of hip.
He may be about to strut in his black feather coat.
The big Kahuna of the avian world, cocky and surefooted.
He may be about to forage, one eye on the look-out
for the demon hawk or coyote or a feral cat.
He may be about to call to another in his mimicable language
of caws, clicks, and rattles and even the sound of a bell.
He may be a helper bird, a tool user, part of a mobbing
gang and if you don’t treat him right, he will forever
hold a grudge. Can’t you see, he has the soul of a poet.